


A Fashion Saiyadon't

by Josenka



Series: Dragon Ball Dysfunctional Domesticity [6]
Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Bad Puns, Costumes, Crime Fighting, F/M, Fashion & Couture, High Couture, High School, Mild Language, Saiyadon't, Saiyan Culture, Superhero Style, Superheroes, Touching, Vigilantism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 03:05:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10234427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Josenka/pseuds/Josenka
Summary: The annual list of The Best Dressed Martial Artists is coming out and Gohan just knows Saiyaman is going to be on it, right? Of course not! And when Saiyaman is dubbed a Saiyadon't, well, Gohan becomes a drama snowflake, among many bad, bad puns, because nothing makes him angry except having his superstyle superslammed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The Dragon Ball Universe is huge. Enormous. Gargantuan. It has its own Wiki, too! Even with that Wiki's help, nothing here's ever going to be certified 100% Canon because interpretation, speculation and invention. And omission of Dragon Ball GT and Super et al. It's all silly fun when the only thing in this Dragon Ball Universe to anger Gohan is peeps dissing Saiyaman's superstyle because the authoress enjoys torturing him.

** ONE **

_C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!_  He itched with agitation for Modern History to end.Lectures on World Martial Arts Tournaments maddened him when many important details were omitted from the 21st to 23rd Tournaments. Like how wicked awesome Dad and the Z Fighters were! But he must bear this hardship because his attendance needed improvement for him to graduate, according to Mom and concerned teachers. Lucky Videl had received a bye from this course topic since her father _was_ reigning world champion. Gohan would have induced tremors to get classes canceled if scores of geologists were not snooping around Herculopolis Super High School (the once and former Orange Star High School until this year) for the source of mystery shakes.  _C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!_

He tingled with excitement too. _Satan City Style_ was releasing its The Best Dressed Martial Artists Issue today at 10:00. Like every year, Mr Satan, complete with sequined cape, would adorn the cover. If memories of Bad Maijin Buu had remained with the masses then images of Dad would have emblazoned the front of the best-selling fashion magazine on Earth, much to the aggravation of Vegeta who insisted it was ultimately _his_ contribution that permitted Kakarot victory.

_Rrrawgh!_ Gohan bounced. This new covert alert attracted no attention, unlike previous ringtones, since it grumbled less like a Super Saiyan stomach. Protected from prying eyes by piled textbooks, he unsheathed his mewling mobile. Thither he went to the Satanic Publishing app (its app shaped like a Satanhead) for breaking publishing news.

And, indeed, it was there: _The Best Dressed Martial Artists Issue!_ Of course, there he was, on the cover, toothy-smiled Mr Satan (sixteen collectible versions available in print but not for download). Gohan scrolled through sexy, titillating spreads of Jewel, Ranfan and Mighty Mask. He stopped to admire Videl, pictured in her private home gym (no one suspecting the gravity chamber secreted behind the mosaic of her flexing father); the images were not suggestive but that asshat Sharpner would masturbate to them nonetheless.

Finally, there it was: _MEEEE!!!_ A tasteful collage of the Great and Mighty Saiyaman in his many heroic poses, atop airplanes, flagpoles, zeppelins--- _SAIYAMAN'S A TOTAL SAIYADON’T!_ “What the hell!?”

“Well, Mr Son,” the teacher shouted,“do you care to share?

Snickers erupted as Gohan felt blood batter his brain. “I, um, I don’t--”

Erasa chuckled. “Finally texting during class like a normal student?” She careened to view his mobile screen. “Oh, looks like Saiyaman’s a Saiyadon’t.”

“Don’t you mean Saiyamaniac?” Sharpner snorted from her other side. “He’s certainly stalking Videl like a maniac.” Which Sharpner would do had he abilities like the Z Fighters.

“Saiyagal’s a Saiyado,” Erasa read aloud for the class.“And Saiyaman’s a Saiyadud who--”

“Ah, geez,” Gohan sheathed his mobile, “Why does everyone dis Saiyaman’s superstyle?” His serious inquiry was answered by hoots, chortles and hollers. Well, investigating geologists be damned, it was time to generate tremors strong enough to cancel class for a few days. 

* * *

** TWO **

Crumpled over like Old Turtle Hermit (but not over aerobics porn), Gohan poked and prodded his single large regular-sized lunch tray with a spork. He had struggled to swallow several unpalatable Kapsulikious Quik meals, too, because he preferred to conceal his superappetite; yesterday he had eaten his last Capsulunchables after saving city prosecutors from Bugseye Eagle. Last year his lab partner Kreyane had quizzed him about that lunchtime pill popping; and he had panicked, deploying the first lie to seize his mind: _“Well, I, uh, I’ve got severe bacne.”_ Sharpner had overheard so, of course, everyone in Satan City knew. 

“Hey Videl!” someone barked as she breezed onto the cafeteria patio. “Your gym’s totes amazeballs.”

“Thanks, Wag!”

“Dude, hey,” someone else cut across the chatter, “can I come work out with you?”

She laughed, “Only if you can get past my dad, Skizzers!” Everyone on the cemented patio chortled. All save the now vacationing Saiyaman who gently stabbed giant vegetables. “Hey, Gohan,” she slapped his lower back and settled beside him, “what’s bumming you out?”

“Oh, woe!” Sharpner sneered, putting aside his two liter ProSatan protein shake. “Woe is Gohan cause that cornball Saiyadork’s a fashion don’t.”

“I think,” Erasa replied, “it’s just those silly poses that’re downgrading his style.”

Gohan perked up. “Really, you mean it?”

“Yeah,” she smiled, “they make him a tad cartoony sometimes.”

Sharpner snorted, “That’s why only preschoolers heart Saiyadweeb costumes.” Maybe Gohan ought to let Bulma redesign his costumes as she had been offering for several months.

Chiming bells heralded the end of lunchtime. Chatter cleared from the patio, leaving Videl alone with Gohan. His tray was covered in an unsavory mash of nutritiousness.Her nearest arm huddled around his hunched form. “I saw the article,” she spoke low. “But don’t worry, Defender of the City.” Her free hand squashed his fist. “The city council’s renaming a street in your honor.”

“They are!?” His posture untwisted. “Which one?”

“Fookin Street.”

“Fookin Street!?” He gawped. “That--that--that’s where city sanitation’s located!” His feet stomped cement. It creaked and it cracked, fissuring and fracturing. And layers of history beneath them earth began to slide deeper. “Ah, geez, not again!”

“Cell’s blasted balls, Gohan!” Videl shouted as they leapt from the forming. “Do you know how much your strength’s costing taxpayers?”

* * *

** THREE **

School had been dismissed early for geologists to investigate the latest crater. And the Guild of Metaphysicists, too, who had voted this high school eleventh on their list of Hottest Paranormal Spots on Earth. Gohan had suggested to Videl that they should, well, you know, like study during their added freetime. She had sucker punched him in the left kidney, informing him he was, well, you know, like behaving as Master Roshi would. That asshat Sharpner had witnessed this whole encounter and would be transmitting rumors of their impending breakup.

And now Gohan was left to lumber through city streets like a total Saiyazombie. All the chipper, chirpy cheer around him chafed like a lecture from Vegeta on training-- _“Your brother spends more time in gravity rooms than you!”_ Masked Mayhem Day was sixty-something hours away so everyone was merrier than Dad at mealtime. Satan, Cell and Saiyagal masks were everywhere in the promotional carnival he pressed through. There were even drones dragging banners through the city to advertise the Mighty Mask Mighty Ball at the Ballerina in the snooty suburb of Peachpit.

Gohan stopped and stooped to retie unraveling shoelaces before an electronics superstore. Televisions glimmered with plasma glory in display windows with the news. Gohan bolted upright when Saiyaman blazed onscreen.

_“Our city’s most adamant defender,”_ Action 5 News declared, _“has been declared a ‘fashion Saiyadon’t’ by_ Satan City Style.”

_“Preproduction on the new big-budgeted Saiyaman movie has halted again,”_ Eye-in-the-Sky 29 revealed. _“Its two major stars, Suki Yaki and Lily Lilac, have enlisted in an unnamed project, a biopic of Mr Satan’s youth.”_

“Damn it!” Gohan cursed loud enough to elicit stares. “Damn it!” He tromped from the negative news without damaging cement. “Damn it!” And he tripped on an undone shoelace, adding snorts to the stares. 

* * *

** FOUR **

By the Great Dragon, today was:  _TOTALLY_ _LIKE_ _THE WORST DAY EVER!_ Well, it would have been if Gohan did not bear the burden of being a Z Fighter with Saiyan blood. With infinite grace, he had lived without acclaim in the living realm for helping save the universe from Cell and Bad Maijin Buu. But his public superhero persona-- _Defender of the City!_ \--was trashed daily, from his schoolmates to the media, while the Great Saiyagal was lauded for her gallantry. She had never ever ever been referred to as Saiyadork, Saiyadweeb or Saiyageek.

_Zippity-zoom-zoom!_ Gohan flew to the lair where his most leal fan resided: _HOME!_ Here he could be without dread or despair of judgment. At last, he was there, in the hallowed space where no one would deem and declare his poses to be lampoonish.

“Hey Gohan!” a grinning Goten greeted him. “Catch any criminals today?” He was at the kitchen table, snacking from a mammoth bowl of riceballs, while flipping through the Great Costume Mayhem Catalogue. 

“Hey Bro,” Gohan sat across from his brother, “who’re Trunks and you gonna be for Masked Mayhem?”

“He’s gonna be Piccolo and I’m gonna be Jackie Chun.”

Gohan smacked the tabletop with his jaw. “What!?” Several riceballs thudded to the floor. “But--but--but I thought you’d be Saiyaman.”

“Nah, I’ve done that for two years.”

“But aren’t you Saiyaman’s ultimate fan?”

“No,” Goten laughed, “that’s Videl!”

“I wish,” Gohan sighed. “She’s furious with me.”

“Ah, did she not like your latest poses?”

_“NO!”_ Pores flickered with rage. _“WHY DOESN’T ANYONE LOVE SAIYAMAN ANYMORE?”_

“Ah, he’s still awesome.” Goten continued to page through the catalogue with sticky fingers. “He’s just not as cool as Tuskgal and Manwalrus right now.” His flipping paused. “Hey, look at all the Saiyaman toys on supersale!” 

Gohan saw: _All fourth series Saiyaman action figures were marked down ninety percent!_ “They’re phasing me out!?” he did mightily shout. “I’m through! I’m through with it! I’m done with superhero shit!” 

* * *

** FIVE **

It was offical: _Saiyaman was so, so, so Saiyadone._ Really. _For reals._ Like totally for realsies! He needed to only drop fliers from the sky to officialize his retirement, although some would mistake it as a ploy to encourage criminal activity. While others would conclude it was a mass experiment in reverse psychology.

But it would be cruel and cold-blooded to leave the city and its environs so, so, so defenseless. If he was not a superhero endorsed by the Royal Law Enforcers of Earth, then he would be an extrajudicial avenger of evil. He would be just like Blackjacklyn Bower on _365._  But without crossbows, machetes, grenades and bazookas. And the gratuitous boobs, bloodshed and badonkadonks. So should he be Gold Fighter? Golden Fighter? No, he would be _the_ Golden Vigilante!

His Super Saiyan 2 form luminously Saiyaglowed before his full length mirror. Black apparel clung tight to inflated muscles, especially pleather to quads and gluts. Darkness was brightened with bling-- _including matching 24K belt and vambraces!_ \--used by Goten and Trunks to play hiphop space pirates. He hoped no one would think the Golden Vigilante had stolen these stunning accessories; these items had been discarded by clotheswhore Yamcha when they had plummeted from the pinnacle of style. 

Gohan posed with fingerless black-gloved hands perched on hips. “Who am I?” he imitated the angry rasp of Vegeta. “I am justice!” No, he needed to introduce himself with much, much, much more gravitas. _“I. AM. JUSTICE!”_ There, that sounded so ass-kicking awesome!

Now he needed the quintessential element of good vigilantism: an injustice to stop with his fist-- _his fist of might and right!_ He activated his capsule police radio to hear the cries of desperation clambering forth from the crime-infested sink of Satan City. And it immediately harkened him like stink to a skunk: _“This is an all points bulletin: the Old Moose Knuckles gang has taken hostages at the Beelzebubba Bank on Azrael Avenue.”_

* * *

** SIX **

Automated doors creaked open. Cocked and locked machine guns aimed thataway. In strutted a lone human, hair aglow like a bug zapper, dressed in black bedecked by bling. Fingers tapped on triggers. The human halted, standing within point blank range of six guns. Beady blue eyes surveyed the scene: sixteen hostages (mostly bank employees) herded together by eight heavily armed beings, including one with six arms.

“So,” a raccoon with a brace of carbines asked, “who’re you?”

“Who am I?” the human rasped, curling hands into fists.  _“I. AM. JUSTICE!”_

Barrels gushed bullets. Shots boomeranged and ricocheted, thisaway and thataway, sideswiping the swiveling human. Gold-encrusted forearms thumped four human gun-toters into comas with one strike each. The six-armed being fired six supersonic blunderbusses, but did not see the bullets strike the human; they saw the vaulted ceiling and felt the cold marble floor with a broken tailbone.

“Move aside!” a deep-voiced fellow bellowed. “I’ll deal with this guy!” He stomped and tromped forth, a ginormous mooseman with jumbo brass knucklebusters adorning his three-fingered paws. “So, another Saiyaman wannabe?” 

The shimmering-haired human shrieked, _“I. AM. JUSTICE!”_ He posed to deliver an uppercut to someone a meter taller than him.

“I am Moose E. Knuckles!” the mooseman snarled. “And you’re gonna get your fucking face punched.”

“Justice will be served!”

Fleet-footed Knuckles jabbed first. The human blocked with his gloved palm. Knucklebusters busted. Knuckles yelled and he yawped at his fractured fingers hung like hanging meat. His uninjured fist looped to hook the human. The attack met air while Knuckles was greeted by a roundhouse kick to the moon. The mooseman crashed into a marble counter which cracked and splintered, as did his tattooed antlers.

“There,” the human announced, flexing his muscles, “justice has been served!”

Former hostages clapped and cheered. Police swamped onto the scene, followed by the media swarm overeager for crime news in the safest city on Earth. The two conscious gang members surrendered without protest to what would be twenty year minimums at the Satan State Pen. And they all, from bank tellers to bomb sniffers, laughed like a horde of hyenas as they beheld the Server of Justice.

“What are you laughing at?” the newly minted hero whined. “What the hell’s so funny!?”

“Uh, dude,” a former hostage giggled, “your pants’re split across your arse.”

* * *

** SEVEN **

Alas, woe, woe, woebegone was Gohan. The mystery crater from yesterday had not cancelled classes for today, only transferred lunchtime off campus. Therefore he was condemned to overhear on every snippet of conversation concerning the Golden Vigilante (dubbed I. M. Justice by the media) as he rowed to and fro through the gossipy sludge pile of high school halls.

“This justice guy,” Sharpner sneered, “he’s more cockamamie than Saiyaman.”

“Like totally,” Angela giggled. “I heard he had farting unicorns on his underwear.”

“Actually, he was wearing Saiyaman underwear.”

Gohan winced with each hee and haw, every chort and chuck he heard of laughter jitterbugging in the halls. Great-fucking-galaxy, it stalked him like Goten did whenever he wanted to train together like superbrothers. _Or had._ Goten wasway too old for Saiyaman stuff. And Gohan, he, too, was way, way, way too old too for either superhero or vigilante games. As that asshat Sharpner snorted louder than Oolong did at schadenfreude, Gohan escaped into a utility closet. Here, in here, sniggering went silent. It was hushed, hushed enough to think how he would--

“Hey Gohan!” Sneaky Videl had snuck in behind him to smack his ass with Saiyagal strength. “Or do I call you I. M. Justice?” Ah, geez, not her too! Mom and Goten had already teased him mercilessly about this, um, this morning. 

“Not so loud!” he snarled as he swatted her hands away. “And it’s not funny.”

“Cell’s blasted balls,” she growled low, “you’re the worst fucking snowflake whenever Saiyaman’s style gets dissed.”

“I am not!”

“Did you forget last month?” she hissed. “You hid at the north ice cap for two whole days cause of Vegeta’s snark.”

“He said Piccolo’s cape was more Saiyan than mine.”

“I’ve seen pictures of you dressed like Piccolo.”

“When I was a dumb kid.”

“Who saved the world from Cell.” She yanked him by the collar so he choked. “You need to cheer the fuck up for the kids, Saiyadear.” She loosened her hold so he could cough. “Next Thursday’s been declared Saiyaman Day by the city.”

He wilted like lettuce. “But--but--but that’s trash day.”

“Only on the west side.” Her fingers grazed his crotch until it lit up. “Now, get your Saiyashit together or you won’t be practicing your new sex poses with me.” By the Great Dragon, her obstinacy was so, so, so sexy! He would be Defender of the City for her any day, never needing citizens to beg his crimefighting fashion sense to save them from the occasional baddie **.**

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic is for fun, not profit. Unless the author gets ahold of seven Dragon Balls. Then it's a #1 Bestseller Short Story for five years.


End file.
